The second time Amara went to the stall, she lied to herself the whole way there.
She told herself she was just curious. She told herself she wanted to ask Baba Aaro what he meant by "the echo." She told herself she would not buy anything. She told herself nurses don't believe in clay-pot magic, that the dream was just stress, that the humming was just her throat clearing after years of silence.
But her legs took the Bodija shortcut at 5:09 a.m. anyway, and her bag was empty except for her water bottle and a folded N500 note she didn't plan to spend. The market was the same brooms, damp concrete, the first smell of kerosene stoves except now there was a space in it that belonged to her. A stall-shaped space.
It was there. It had not moved. It had not been demolished overnight by the LGA or chased away by the Pastor of the Pentecostal church who said the market needed "cleansing." It sat between Mama Sikira's fabric and the burnt suya spot like it had been there since the British left.
Baba Aaro was polishing a pot. He used a piece of white cloth that was not white anymore. His movements were slow, circular, the way old men touch things they respect. He did not look up when she stopped in front of him.
"You come," he said.
"I didn't say I was coming," Amara replied. Her voice was still new to her. It came out louder than she meant, like she hadn't learned the volume settings yet.
"Legs talk before mouth," he said. "You no go waka if you no wan come."
She hated that he was right.
The stall today looked different, though she couldn't say how. Same three planks. Same thatch. Same two hundred pots. But the tags the tags had shifted. Yesterday, the one that said the day you stopped singing had been front row, center. Today it was gone. In its place: The last time you saw your father sober. Another: The morning you decided to become a nurse. Another: Your childhood best friend's real name.
"You dey rearrange them?" she asked.
"Dem dey rearrange themselves," he said. "Lost things no dey stay one place. Like goat."
She leaned on the counter. The wood was cold. "I want to ask you something."
"Ask."
"That thing you said. About price. 'Seven days of someone else's laughter.' What does that mean?"
Baba Aaro finally looked up. The milky film over his eyes moved, and for a second she thought she saw something darker underneath, like a pupil floating in cloud.
"It mean wetin I talk," he said. "You make person laugh, dem go keep quiet for one day. Twenty-four hours. After, laugh go return. Like you borrow am."
"That's not possible."
"Many thing no be possible till dem happen." He set down the pot he was polishing. The tag read: _The taste of your mother's last meal_. "You sing yesterday?"
She didn't answer.
"You sing, and small boy for hospital laugh. Yes?"
Her stomach dropped. "How do you know that?"
"Stall know. Stall always know. I just dey here dey clean." He gestured around. "You think I know everybody business? I no be God. I be keeper."
"What happens to Adekunle?" she said. The name came out before she could stop it.
"Adekunle?"
"The boy. At St. Martha's. Sickle cell. I sang 'Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes.' He laughed."
Baba Aaro nodded like she'd confirmed the weather. "Then Adekunle no go laugh today. Maybe till tomorrow this time. Depends when he laugh."
"You can't do that."
"I no do anything. You do. You agree. You say yes. I no force you."
"I didn't know"
"You didn't ask." He picked up another pot. "Most people no dey ask. Dem dey want. Wanting na loud thing. It dey cover ear."
Amara's mouth was dry. She thought of Adekunle's mother, who sat by his bed and told him stories about a tortoise just to see his teeth. She thought of the way his whole body laughed, like laughter was a seizure of joy.
"Can I give it back?" she said. "The voice. Can I return it?"
"You fit return," Baba Aaro said. "No refund, I talk am. If you return, you go lose wetin you pay with. But you no pay yet. You still dey pay. Seven days."
"So for seven days, anyone I make laugh"
"go keep quiet for one day. Yes. After seven days, price don finish. Voice na your own forever. Unless you lose am again."
She did the math. Seven days. She could avoid people for seven days. She could work, go home, sleep. Don't make eye contact. Don't joke. Don't be kind. Nurses were supposed to be kind.
"What if I make ten people laugh in one day?" she asked.
"Then ten people go keep quiet. Each one, one day. No discount."
"And what's the echo?"
He was quiet for a long time. A woman walked past with a basket of fresh okra on her head. She did not look at the stall. The politeness spell again.
"Echo," Baba Aaro said finally, "na wetin remain after sound finish. You take laugh, but you no fit take wetin laugh dey protect."
"Speak English."
"When person no fit laugh, fear dey enter. Sadness dey enter. Nightmare dey enter. Laugh na like door. You close door for one day, cold go enter room. That cold na echo. You no pay for echo. Echo na consequence."
Amara felt sick. "You didn't tell me that."
"I tell you price. I no tell you weather." He shrugged. "If I tell you rain go fall, you go still plant yam?"
She wanted to scream. She wanted to sweep the pots off the counter. She wanted to call Chika, or her pastor, or the police. But what would she say? This man stole a child's laugh? They'd put her in the psych ward.
"I want the full voice," she said. Her own voice surprised her. It was hard. Flat. "The one I would have if I never stopped. Not the piece you gave me. All of it."
Baba Aaro studied her. "You sure? You don hear price."
"I'll pay. Seven days. I'll be careful."
"Careful no dey stop accident." He reached under the counter and brought up a pot bigger than the others. The clay was darker, almost black. The red cloth was new. The tag was longer: The voice you would have owned, if fear never sat in your throat, ages 10 to 24.
"Price," he said, "na seven days of someone else's laughter, plus echo, plus one more thing."
"What more thing?"
"One day of your own certainty."
"What does that mean?"
"One day, you go wake up and no go know if you be good person. Just one day. You go doubt everything. You go look for your hand and wonder if e be your own. Then day go pass."
Amara thought about it. One day of doubt. She'd lived twenty-four years with doubt. What was one more?
"Fine," she said.
"Last chance," Baba Aaro said. "Once I open am, na done."
"Open it."
He uncorked the pot.
There was no bell this time. There was a sound like a choir inhaling. The air around her mouth went hot, then cold, then normal. Her throat didn't hurt. It didn't tickle. It felt... wide. Like a door had been unblocked.
"Go," he said. "You don pay. Market go collect."
She walked to work in a daze.
The first test was Feyi. Her kid brother, fifteen, all knees and attitude. He was in the sitting room, eating bread and watching a skit on his phone. She said, "Your shirt dey like curtain." It was a stupid joke. He snorted. Then he laughed. Big, loud.
Two hours later, their aunt called. "Feyi dey alright? I tickle am, he no laugh. He just dey look me."
Amara checked the time. 10:42 a.m. She marked it in her head.
Second test was the bus conductor. She was on a danfo to the hospital. The conductor was doing his usual speech: "Lagos, Lagos, enter with your change o, I no be CBN!" She said, "You be CBN, but na Central Bank of Noise." The whole bus chuckled. He laughed too, surprised.
By the time she got to St. Martha's, her phone had a message from an unknown number: Your brother dey ok? He no talk since morning.
Third was Matron. Matron was sixty, mean, and immortal. She was chewing out a student nurse for writing "pt" instead of "patient." Amara walked past and muttered, "Pt na for pit latrine, Ma." Matron's mouth twitched. Then she barked a laugh. The student nurse looked like she'd seen Jesus.
Matron didn't laugh the rest of the day. At 3 p.m., she called Amara into the office. "You dey alright? You no talk since morning."
"I talk now," Amara said.
"Not you. Me. My mouth dey dry." She looked disturbed.
Fourth was Adekunle again. She couldn't help it. He was listless, post-crisis, and his mum had gone to buy pap. She sang "Baby Shark" and did the hand motions. He giggled. It was a small giggle.
His mum came back at 5 p.m. "Sister, my son no dey laugh again. Since you sing for am yesterday, he just dey quiet. Today sef. You think na the drug?"
Amara wrote 5:12 p.m. in her notebook.
Fifth was a patient's husband. He was crying in the corridor because his wife wasn't waking up. Amara brought him tea. She said, "Oga, if you cry finish the hospital water, NEPA go take am as una bill." He laughed. Then he looked horrified at himself. He didn't laugh again that day.
Sixth was Chika. That night, at home. Chika was complaining about her bank manager. Amara said, "Your manager name suppose be Manager of Problems." Chika cackled.
Next morning, Chika was silent. She burned the toast. She didn't insult the NEPA man when the light went off. She looked at Amara at breakfast and said, "I feel like my mouth dey under water."
Seventh was herself. She made herself laugh. She stood in the bathroom, looked in the mirror, and said, "You be singer now, Beyoncé shift." She laughed.
The next day, she woke up and was not sure she was a good person.
It was not a mood. It was not sadness. It was a removal. She looked at her hands and thought, whose hands are these? She looked at her uniform and thought, why do I wear this? She looked at Adekunle's chart and thought, Do I actually care, or do I just do the motions?
She moved through the ward like a ghost. She did her work. Vitals. Drugs. Notes. But the thing that made her stay late, the thing that made her sing to a crying child, the thing that made her argue with doctors for a patient it was gone. She was a machine. She went home and sat on the mattress and stared at the wall.
Chika said, "You alright? You dey like person wey lose something."
Amara almost laughed. Then she remembered.
At 11:43 p.m., the doubt lifted. It was like a cloud moving off the sun. She gasped. She felt like she'd been underwater. She touched her chest. She was a good person. She was tired and angry and complicit and trying, but she was good.
She cried. For the first time since she was ten, she cried and wailed and didn't care who heard.
Day eight, she woke up and sang.
Not a hum. Not a bathroom song. She sang "Oliver Twist" by D'banj, full voice, while she swept the room. The notes were there. All of them. Low notes, high notes, the riff she used to hear in her head but couldn't make. Her throat didn't hurt. Her voice didn't shake.
Chika dropped her cup. "Jesus! Na you be that?"
Amara grinned. "Na me o."
She went to work. The ward was quiet. Adekunle was discharged. Feyi was back to insulting her. Matron was shouting. The conductor on her bus was back to his speech. The price was paid.
But the echo.
She saw it in Adekunle two weeks later when his mum brought him for follow-up. He was laughing. But at night, his mum said, he woke up screaming about "a room where nobody hears you."
She saw it in Feyi when he told her he'd had a dream that his mouth was sewn shut.
She saw it in herself when she dreamed of a market where all the pots were open and screaming.
She went back to the stall.
Tayo was there. He was arguing with Baba Aaro.
"I want the courage to say no," Tayo was saying. "I no fit dey gree for everybody."
Price, Baba Aaro said, na the last time you felt safe.
Tayo looked at Amara. Oil under his fingernails. Scar on his eyebrow. Eyes that had already said no to a lot of things and been punished for it.
"Don't," she said.
"You do am," he said.
"I didn't know."
"Now you know. You go stop me?"
Baba Aaro looked between them. "Two market children. You go dey come together now."
Amara wanted to tell Tayo about the echo. About the nightmares. About the day of doubt. But Tayo was already putting his hand on the pot.
"I pay," he said.
And that was how the returns department started.